


Then I'll Be Smiling

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton-centric, F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's puppy dog eyes are ridiculously effective. Thankfully he doesn't know that. </p><p>(Or does he?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then I'll Be Smiling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Written for the be_compromised promptathon. I hope you enjoy! :)

 

1.

The first time Natasha witnesses the phenomenon, she’s never even heard the phrase ‘puppy eyes’ before. They’re standing with Coulson in the hallway outside one of the conference rooms having just finished being briefed on their next mission.

“This isn’t going to work,” says Clint, scrolling through the details of the assignment on his tablet.

Natasha frowns. The job is straightforward, shouldn’t be anything challenging for them. She doesn’t say that, though, wants to hear what his concern is instead.

Coulson sighs, and the look on his face makes Natasha think that he’s heard this particular complaint at least a dozen times. She knows better than anyone how maddeningly tenacious Clint can be. “What is it, Barton?”

“Says here that we’ll be staying at a Motel 8. In Chicago.” Clint holds up the tablet so that it faces Coulson. He jabs a finger blindly at the screen, which inflates the size of the display to a comical degree.

“That’s right,” Coulson answers evenly. “Your reservations are already booked, as you can see in the memo.”

“I’ve been there before,” says Clint. “I hate that hotel.”

“They’re probably not too fond of you either,” says Coulson, “given the invoice S.H.I.E.L.D. received last time. Something about suspicious holes in the wall.”

Clint grimaces but doesn’t give in yet. “Then why are you sending me back there?”

“Simple,” says Coulson. “It’s the cheapest place in town. And it’s been brought to my attention that you and Romanoff have been costing S.H.I.E.L.D. far more than your budget allotment.”

Natasha opens her mouth to apologize, to explain that she’ll stay anywhere necessary for the job, but Clint cuts her off.

“Not our fault that doing our jobs costs money.”

“A hundred dollars on room service last week,” says Coulson.

Clint shrugs. “Keeping a low profile meant eating in private.”

“Three hundred dollars on pay-per-view the time before that,” Coulson insists.

“Keeping my mind sharp.”

“Right,” Coulson says incredulously. “And nearly _five hundred dollars_ for Tech to create the boomerang arrows you commissioned last month. You want to explain to me what a boomerang arrow is for?”

“Comes back to you,” says Clint, as if that explains everything.

Coulson sighs again, exasperatedly. For a moment Natasha is sure the conversation is over, limits tested in full. But then it happens.

Clint puts on his most earnest face, the one that’s just a little more exaggerated than Natasha saw the night he recruited her.

“Come on, Coulson,” he cajoles. “Punish me if you want, but you shouldn’t make Natasha stay in that shit hole.”

Coulson throws up his hands. “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll request the change. But Holiday Inn’s the best you get.”

 

2.

For a twenty-something security guard who probably has no idea that the laboratory facility he’s protecting contains a slew of black market hazardous material, Stan is remarkably persistent. Natasha knows his name because it’s embroidered on the breast pocket of his uniform. And also because he’s now said it at least two times in the process of refusing them entry, despite their masks and manufactured ID credentials. Then again, it probably isn’t every day that he gets to see any sort of action on his graveyard shift.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Natasha for the third time. “I _know_ your badges checked out in the system, I just don’t have any information here regarding anybody with after-hours access, and this is a highly regulated facility.

“I told you,” Natasha insists without missing a beat, though she’s beginning to doubt that this strategy will work, beginning to consider messier options, “we have a very expensive project going that requires round the clock supervision. So unless you want to wake Dr. Kuzman up in the middle of the night to tell him that you’d put protocol above his eight million dollar defense contract, you’d better let us in.”

Stan falters for a moment, but then sets his jaw with fresh conviction. “Protocol does state that I should give him a call.”

Natasha starts to reach for the taser that’s currently concealed at her hip, but Clint surprises her by stepping past her. He gives her a little tap of his elbow that means to wait on him before taking further action.

“Look, Stan,” says Clint, putting on his very best chagrined look, “she’s not telling the truth.”

Stan perks up, looks like he’s about to blurt out a triumphant ‘I-told-you-so’ but Clint holds up a hand for silence so he can continue.

“I fucked up, okay? I left my cell cultures out on the counter, and they’re going to melt if they stay there all night. If _that_ happens, Dr. Kuzman will have my head.” Clint makes the most pathetic face Natasha has ever seen. “Help me out here, please? All I need is five minutes.”

Stan looks physically pained, but he nods once, swiping his badge to open the door and stepping aside. “Okay, but--Just five minutes. I mean it.”

“Five minutes,” Clint echoes, taking off down the hall.

 

3.

“Just hear me out,” comes Clint’s voice, as Natasha steps into the communal kitchen that’s closest to the Tower’s gym. She usually prefers to cook and eat in her private quarters, but today she’s in search of a workout, is hoping to find someone to join her for a few rounds of sparring.

Tony and Clint both glance up at her as she enters, and Natasha gives them a curt nod before turning to the refrigerator and gathering ingredients to make a smoothie. It feels indulgent, and she intends to enjoy it, along with all the other luxuries Tony’s built into their training space.

Behind her, Tony sighs. “What am I hearing that I haven’t already heard?”

“Nanobot arrows,” says Clint.

“Heard that already. Said no.”

“But,” Clint insists, “just think of all the possible applications! I wouldn’t even need to have a pre-filled quiver anymore, or two dozen fingering sequences to activate the custom arrow heads. I could just have the nanobots and some basic materials, let them build themselves into whatever I needed.”

“Romanoff?” says Tony, apparently ignoring Clint for the moment. “You let Barton get into the stash of robot movies again?”

“Believe it or not,” she says coolly, “I’m not his keeper.”

“I haven’t heard a compelling reason for you to reject my idea yet,” says Clint, apparently undeterred. Which, at this point, should really surprise nobody.

“It’s expensive,” says Tony.

Natasha closes the refrigerator and moves to begin adding fruit and ice cubes to the blender, which has the added bonus of placing her with an excellent view of the men. Maybe, she thinks, she can get Clint to spar, if he’s not too focused on the newest toy he wants for his arsenal.

“Aren’t your suits expensive?” asks Clint. “And what about Veronica? How much did she cost to build?”

“Necessary investments,” says Tony, “are not the same as the shiny new toys you want every other week.”

Clint actually _pouts_ at that, and for a moment it’s all Natasha can do to avoid laughing at him. “You have nanobots in your suits.”

“ _Nanites,_ ” Tony corrects. “And they’re only an emergency repair mechanism. They’re not part of any primary system, because the technology just isn’t advanced enough to guarantee a reliable outcome.”

“So you’d bet your life on them,” says Clint, “but not an arrow? Just a prototype. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Last time it was ‘just a prototype,’ you wanted a fully produced item for immediate field use as soon as I showed you the results,” says Tony.

Clint frowns, shrugs, and for a moment Natasha thinks he might give in. “True. But--don’t you even want to know if it’s possible? To have your nanobots build arrows for me?” His face lights up with that magic combination of longing and hope, and this time Natasha thinks it’s definitely on purpose. He can’t be totally unaware of his effect on people. Nobody is _that_ oblivious.

Tony stares him down for a second longer, then throws up his hands. “Fine. I’ll give it a try. Proof of concept only. But when these things glitch up and melt your quiver instead of following your commands, I don’t want to hear about it.”

 

+1

Natasha is rolling out pie crusts and watching Laura peel potatoes when the sound of Clint and the kids talking loudly about something drifts in through the open window. She doesn’t have time to eavesdrop, because a moment later, the three of them are bounding through the front door, with a very muddy, very enthusiastic dog.

“Mom!” Lila begins, looking practically too excited to form coherent sentences at all, “can we keep him?”

Laura sets down the peeler and wipes her hands on her jeans before turning to face them. “Where did he come from?”

“Wandered into the shed,” Cooper answers.

“Doesn’t seem to have an owner, but he’s really friendly,” says Clint, petting the dog’s filthy head as if that proves it.

Natasha thinks that if she were Laura, she might be tempted to consider painful forms of punishment right about now. Fortunately, all she has to do is watch.

“If I end up with mud all over my living room, you’re cleaning it,” says Laura. “With a toothbrush.”

Clint feigns horror. “Not the dreaded toothbrush!”

Laura sighs. “It’s not funny. You know how I feel about you picking up strays.” There’s still a warmth in her voice, though, a lightness in her eyes that belies the words she’s chosen.

“So can we keep him?” Lila insists, putting her arms around the dog’s neck, which gets mud all over her clothes.

“Can we keep him?” Clint echoes, showing his wife a face so pitiful that it actually rivals the dog’s.

“Okay,” says Laura. “Fine. But you’re giving him a bath right now. And he’d better be house broken by the time your leave is up.”

Clint grins. “No problem. I’ll take care of it all.” He ushers the kids and the dog off in search of a bathtub without another word.

“He’s playing you,” says Natasha, as soon as Clint and the kids are out of earshot. “You know he just played you, right? With that helpless sad puppy act?”

Laura laughs softly, picks up her peeler and potato to resume right where she’s left off. “Oh, I know. But, see, that’s the thing. _He_ doesn’t know that I know.”

“What’s the point?” asks Natasha, not unkindly.

Laura just smiles conspiratorially. “Because, he gets to think he won. I get to have a dog that’s house broken and clean.”

“Right,” says Natasha, thinking about that. It’s Laura’s play, but it’s not so different from her own. “That’s kind of brilliant.”

“I know,” says Laura, dumping the potatoes into a pot before pouring more iced tea into both of their glasses.

Picking hers up and sipping, Natasha decides it might be time to try out a few new techniques, take a page out of Clint’s book once in a while. After all, he doesn’t need to know.


End file.
